


A pinch of magic

by fahrouche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Food, M/M, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fahrouche/pseuds/fahrouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing like a good meal when you spend most of your time hunting all manner of supernatural things. Sometimes there's just a little more in the food than you realize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A pinch of magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paeanrela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paeanrela/gifts).



> Happy halloween paeanrela! I hope you enjoy this. :)
> 
> Many, many thanks to Ali for letting me yell about writers block, and to [Tony](http://starscreamofficial.co.vu/) for all his help with witchcraft.

“So there I am,” Bahorel’s saying, waving his fork around as he talks, “Cornered by a ghoul and a zombie, my machete lost somewhere in the fucking basement, and my wrist is probably broken. I’m thinking ‘wow Bahorel, you’ve been in some fun situations before but now your fat’s in the fire.’ And it hits me!”

 “The zombie or the ghoul?”

 “I will have you know, Bossuet, that it was neither.” Bahorel jabs his fork in Bossuet’s direction. “I’ve got a lighter in my pocket and we’re in an old flour mill, the place is practically a bomb ready to go off. All I gotta do I get past them and--”

 “Avoid a fiery ball of death?” Combeferre smiles.

 “Exactly. So I kick the zombie in the chest and my foot almost goes through what’s left of his ribcage - which was gross, don’t kick a zombie in the chest - and punch the ghoul in the face and start running for the entrance. Gotta get all that old flour in the air, so I’m waving my arms over all the old tables and crap and I think there’s _still_ flour in the seams of my favourite jacket. I get to the door, light up my lighter, and toss it back in the mill.” Bahorel pauses to take a sip of his drink, and says, “I start running for the fucking hill, and I manage to duck for cover when I hear this huge boom from the mill. And that was the end of the zombie and ghoul.”

 Joly leads everyone at the table in a round of applause, and Bahorel salutes them with his fork. There’s a carrot speared on the tines. “I’d like to see any of you top that.”

 Enjolras smiles and sips his chamomile tea. There were more empty places around the table than usual - Feuilly was off dealing with a problem in Brussels, Courfeyrac was coaching Marius through his first werewolf hunt in Vitebsk, and Jehan was doing an exorcism in London. People being away during one of Grantaire’s dinners wasn’t unusual, considering that all of them spent a not-insignificant amount of time travelling around Europe hunting the supernatural, but the dinners when everyone was in town were the best. When the nine of them - ten now, with Marius - were able to squeeze around Grantaire’s table, bumping elbows and laughing over an actual, homecooked meal, all of them left feeling lighter and happier.

 Given that most of them killed things for a living, the warm feeling that resulted was refreshing.

 Grantaire sweeps out of the kitchen, holding a plate of cupcakes. “Chocolate and mint,” he tells them, laying the plate in the center of the table. The white icing is perfectly swirled on top of the cupcakes, and Enjolras’s mouth is watering just looking at them. He’s never been above denying his love of chocolate. Nor is he the only one: Joly takes three with a delighted grin, and even Bahorel licks icing from his finger before eating his cupcake.

 “Do you want help with the dishes after?” Enjolras asks.

 “Thanks for the offer, Edgar Frog, but I can handle it,” Grantaire replies, licking all the icing off a cupcake with one swipe of his tongue. “There’s not many, and I can toss pretty much all of them in the dishwasher.”

 It’s not the first time Grantaire’s turned down the offer. Enjolras always offers though, because there always seems to be a lot of dishes. Grantaire never accepts, and if anything he leaves all the mess where it is until they leave, but he can still be nice enough to give Grantaire the choice to accept some help, right?

*

 Had anyone told Enjolras a couple of years ago that monsters - vampires, werewolves, zombies, witches - were real, he’d have asked them if they were okay. Maybe would have suggested they sit down and have a drink of water.  

 Being ignorant of the reality had been pretty nice. He can’t say it had been peaceful because he’s _more than aware_ of of how he is about everything, knows he can get passionate about things important to him. Back then, it had been about discrimination, and he still cares a lot about that, but. Somehow when he can look down at a vampire’s corpse, it feels like a more immediate change. One less killer in the world. It’s satisfying to know that people will live as a result.

 Combeferre and Courfeyrac got into it not long after him. Considering that he can’t keep a secret from either of them, it was a matter of time, and from there Les Amis slowly formed into what it is now.

 Not all of them go on hunts. There’s no shame in that, and those that don’t hunt - Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet, though sometimes Jehan has to step away from hunting for a while - still help in their own way. They do research, find possible cases, carve wooden stakes and soak them in holy water infused with garlic, and do what they can from the sidelines. Grantaire’s Saturday night dinners spawned from that, from the desire that they’d get a good meal on occasion. It was a good idea too, since they’ve been even better since they started doing dinner every week.

 That’s something Enjolras has to think about, sometimes. Grantaire openly admits that he doesn’t think that they’re making much of a dent in the supernatural population, but still goes out of his way to help them. He’s good at hiding what he wants to, from the group - Enjolras is sure that Grantaire thinks no one’s noticed, but he never talks about his past or lets on much about himself a lot of the time. It isn’t a habit Enjolras likes, given that it can be dangerous for their group to keep secrets. What if one of them got bitten by a werewolf and didn’t tell anyone?

 But Grantaire’s been harmless enough in the past two or three years that he’s been part of the group, so Enjolras doesn’t voice his concerns and just keeps his eye on Grantaire.

 *

 “Grantaire?” Enjolras calls out, stepping into Grantaire’s flat. “I finished my meeting early, thought I’d come over now instead of walking around for an hour.”

 There’s no response, but Enjolras can hear the shuffle of bare feet and low humming in the kitchen. He toes his shoes off, leaving them by the door, and heads for the kitchen. “Grantaire?”

 It’s no wonder Grantaire didn’t hear Enjolras come in, his back is turned away from the door and he’s got huge headphones over his ears. Even on the other side of the kitchen, Enjolras can hear tinny music leaking out. That’s not what’s surprising, though.

What is surprising is the silvery steam rising from the pot on the stove. The way Grantaire waves a hand at a cookbook and it rises into the air, floating over to him and stays there is a surprise. The slow realisation at what Grantaire’s been keeping secret is a surprise, but more than anything, it makes Enjolras furious.

 Grantaire is a witch.

 For a moment, Enjolras doesn’t say anything, but when Grantaire mixes whatever is in the pot with silvery steam with melted chocolate and starts murmuring as he stirs, Enjolras reaches for one of the knives he keeps on his person.

He grabs Grantaire’s shoulder and spins him around, pinning him against the counter. Pushes Grantaire's headphones off, tinny music leaking out. 

 “What the _fuck_ -” Grantaire bites out.

 Enjolras’s lip curls. “I could say the same. What are you doing?”

 Grantaire swallows. The blade of Enjolras’s knife is on his throat, ready to do what he has to. God, Enjolras has been so stupid, how didn’t he see this coming? “I’m just - cooking. Can you put the knife down?”

 “I don’t know of many recipes that involve floating cookbooks.”

 At that, Grantaire’s shoulders slump, and he sighs. “Fuck.”

 Enjolras doesn’t disagree at the notion, though he sees this a little differently. “Well?”

 “It’s - I’ll tell you, do what you want, but can you just give me a chance to explain?”

 Narrowing his eyes, Enjolras lowers the knife, and shoves Grantaire back. He watches Grantaire rub his throat and check his fingers to see if they came away bloody. There’s no cut or blood on Grantaire’s neck, because Enjolras is used to using his knife, even if he can’t tell when one of his so-called friends is a witch. He feels betrayed.

“All the hunters in Les Amis go out every day and face some awful shit,” Grantaire says. “You go and face down all sorts of things, and it’d be so, so easy for any of them to just…” He makes a cutting motion across his throat, but looks at the knife in Enjolras’s hand and swallows again. “Uh. The point is, any one of you could get hurt or killed, and I can’t hunt. Violence poisons my, uh, magic. But I can’t just stand by and watch all of you risk your lives and do nothing.”

He doesn’t say anything, and Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Not explaining anything.”

“I cook spells into the food. Protection, and health. Safety. That way, when everyone eats it, they’re protected from all the crap you have to face.”

“You cast spells on us?”

Grantaire runs a hand through his hair. “You’re pissed, I know you are, and I don’t blame you. You hate anything and everything supernatural, and you just found out that I’ve been getting all of you to eat spells. But god, Enjolras, can you tell me how many times any of you have been to the emergency room since I started cooking?”

He considers it. “Not very many,” he admits.

"The worst anyone’s gotten is Bahorel’s broken wrist,” Grantaire replies. “And that took not just a zombie, but a zombie and a ghoul.”

The worst thing is, Grantaire isn’t wrong. And Enjolras _hates_ that, hates knowing that so much of their longevity and health is due to the spells they’ve eaten. Even done with good intentions - which seems to be the case - it feels like they’re reliant on it, now. But despite that, he’s still capable of being pragmatic. He takes a deep breath.

“Fine.”

“Really?” Grantaire says, looking hopeful.

“You still get to tell everyone that, though. You can’t keep casting spells on us without being upfront about it.”

“I - yeah. That’s fair.”

Enjolras nods, returning his knife to its sheath. “Maybe for tonight, until everyone knows, no magic in the food.”

With a jerky hand motion from Grantaire, the forgotten chocolate and what Enjolras figures is some sort of potion floats to the sink. “There’s still herbs with magical properties in some of it, but without a spell being cast it’s just regular herbs. Like mint.”

“How is mint magical?”

Grantaire snorts. “It has protective properties.”

Well then.

Enjolras steps back and watches Grantaire move bowls and ingredients with little more than waving his hands. “Is this why you never let me help with the dishes?”

“Yup. I can make them just go in the dishwasher without having to get it up, but if someone’s helping than I have to actually wash them.”

There’s quiet for a few more minutes, and then: “Sorry for the knife.”

Grantaire turns around and looks at Enjolras. “Apology accepted, but I understand why you reacted like that. That’s probably part of why I didn’t tell you guys about my magic.”

“What’s the other part?” Enjolras asks.

“You’ve got that face. It’s a very scary face when you’re angry - I’m sending you the bill for getting my pants cleaned, by the way.”

“I’ll send it back.”

“That’s what you come back with? Come on, Van Helsing, I expected a better response.”

Enjolras can feel himself start to smile. “Let’s say the adrenaline is distracting.”

“Bullshit, I’m the one who almost wound up six feet under over here.” Grantaire says.

“I wouldn’t have killed you, everyone else would have gotten a say.”

Grantaire hums, stirring a pot of soup. “You know, you’re the reason I joined Les Amis.”

“Me?” Grantaire’s never made any real attempt to get close to Enjolras. They’re friends, sure, but he’s a lot closer with Joly and Bossuet than he’s ever been with Enjolras.

“Yeah. You were beautiful, declaiming about - I think it was poverty? I was curious, so I started going to the meetings, and when things shifted to hunting, I just kept my mouth shut about the fact that I wasn’t unfamiliar with the subject.”

His answer catches Enjolras offguard. “You thought I was beautiful?”

It’s something he’s been told before, though before now it was never intended necessarily as a compliment. Oftentimes it’s people who want to tear him down, discredit him for being little more than a pretty face. But the way Grantaire says it, it’s different. There’s a warm feeling blossoming in Enjolras’s stomach. It’s not unlike the one he feels when he sees his friends together and laughing, but this time it’s a more personal warmth. He can feel his cheeks grow hot.

“Uh. Yeah.” Grantaire waves his hand at another pot, but the movement is jerky. “Not. It’s not really past tense. A bit more than just that, actually.”

Enjolras is definitely blushing. He rubs the back of his neck and leans against the wall. “I don’t know how to respond to that,” he says finally. “Not that it isn’t _flattering_ , I just-”

“Enjolras.” It’s his actual name. Grantaire only uses it when he’s being serious. “I’m telling you because I figured, shit, might as well take advantage of honesty hour, not to ask anything of you.”

“Let me think about it? It’s been a bit of a weird night.”

“You got it. Seriously, not expecting anything, not asking anything.”

He can hear Bahorel and Feuilly shouting out at the door. Enjolras hadn’t realised how much time had passed since they started talking, but somehow, he’s not surprised. It’s been a pretty eventful hour, to say the least. “I appreciate that. Maybe after we get through dinner we can talk?”

“Right, I still have to face the music.” Grantaire runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. “No one’s gonna stab me though, right?”

“I only promise that for me,” Enjolras says, and smiles at Grantaire’s bark of laughter. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](http://fahrouche.tumblr.com)


End file.
